


As Fate Would Decree

by Inwiste



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Angst, Blood and Injury, F/M, Falling In Love, Gen, Graphic Description of Corpses, Original Character Death(s), Possibly Unrequited Love, Third Kinslaying (Tolkien), but just to be safe, it's not super graphic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-29
Updated: 2020-11-29
Packaged: 2021-03-10 00:15:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,692
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27775210
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Inwiste/pseuds/Inwiste
Summary: It is not in the way of elves to marry in times of war, yet Gil-Galad falls in love regardless.
Relationships: Ereinion Gil-galad & Original Female Character(s), Ereinion Gil-galad/Original Female Character(s)
Comments: 9
Kudos: 12





	As Fate Would Decree

**Author's Note:**

> Some notes. In this version, Gil-Galad is the son of Andreth and Aegnor and was sent away by Andreth to live with Círdan soon after he was born, so he is a half-elf (not important to the story though).

They meet for the first time only months after the destruction of Nargothrond. He has never seen the realm, he has only heard stories from Círdan and other elves who had visited the underground fortress. She was the commander of the troops, he learns. It confuses him, the fact that she has survived when most of the army fell, though it quickly becomes clear as she collapses in a chair and Celebrimbor helps her roll up a loose pant leg, revealing a metal leg that stops mid-thigh. She had long since given up a post of command, Erestor tells him. Her work in the forge had taken the place of fighting.

It is on the second day after the arrival of the refugees that he learns her name. “Vórime”, she tells him between rapid conversations in Quenya with her brother. Gildor, another elf from the fallen realm, pulls her away before he can talk to her again and he does not see her for weeks. He assumes she has chosen to live in the Havens rather than on Balar until he finds her on the porch of the modest talan he shares with Círdan. Her dress pools at her feet as she leans forward and Gil-Galad finds it hard not to stare at the faded green fabric, for her gaze is intense and her eyes unreadable. 

“I knew your father,” Vórime says. No one will discuss Aegnor with him. Nor his mother, Andreth. Even Círdan will change the subject each time he probes for answers about them. Gil-Galad only learned of their deaths through a messenger sent to the shipwright. He stays silent. 

“How old are you?” she asks as she pulls her crutches to the left so he can take the seat next to her. 

“I turn 105 in a few months,” Gil-Galad replies. “How old are you?” 

Much to his surprise, she chuckles softly at the question. Her face is tilted towards the sky and the dying rays of the setting sun illuminate her tawny skin in a golden light. “If we are being truly honest with each other, I have no idea.” Her smile quickly vanishes and a distant look appears in her eyes. “I lost track of the years once we reached the Helcaraxë.” 

They sit in silence for a few more minutes until Vórime suddenly grabs her crutches and stands. He accompanies her to her horse and watches her mount with ease, using the straps on the crutches to sling them over her back. There’s a smile on her face as she waves goodbye and he finds himself watching her leave, finally going inside when she enters the treeline and vanishes from sight. 

***

The forge is quiet as Gil-Galad enters and he finds Vórime hunched over a desk, reading a battered journal that she snaps shut when he runs into a table and mutters a curse under his breath. He expects to be met with a glare—her temper, especially related to the contents of her forge, was quite impressive, though her face is devoid of anger or even irritation as she looks at him and rises from her seat. The broken remnants of his spear are spread out over part of the table while the rest is covered by a thick blanket that obscures the odd shapes underneath. 

She gently nudges him and takes his place as he steps to the side, though their shoulders continue to brush as she tugs at the blanket, evening it out. 

“As you can see, I did not fix your spear. It would require a new hilt and there were already stress fractures in the blade. I would like to talk to the smith who forged this because many of these fractures appear to be from the making of the blade, not from prolonged use.” A pointed look is thrown his way and he has a feeling there is disappointment in her eyes but she turns away before he gets a good look. “Though getting your spear crushed by a boulder certainly did not help matters here.” 

Heat rises in his cheeks and he knows she’s right and that it was most likely her teasing him, though he had grown quite attached to his spear. “Did you just bring me here to make fun of my weapons?” Gil-Galad replies indignantly. 

“No, I did not. I got a bit carried away, sorry,” Vórime says with a small smile. “I noticed that you also neglected to use a shield as well. Long story short, I crafted you a new spear and shield!” 

The blanket gives way with a sharp tug and she folds it into a small pile before letting it drop to her feet as Gil-Galad stares at the weapons before him. Neat elvish script is engraved on the blade and stars decorate his shield, adorned in gold and royal blue. The leather is stiff as he slides his arm through the handles and lifts the shield. 

“Before you start swinging that around, we should go outside. I don’t want you to injure either of us.” 

He picks up his spear and follows her outside, the elleth giving him a wide berth as he swings his spear and raises his shield, grinning at the lightness and maneuverability. 

“I suggest you test the spear and shield against Gildor and the others when you spar tonight. Take note of anything that causes you an issue,” Vórime says. “I have to take my leave now, though. Lady Elwing wishes to speak to me and to be there at the time she requested, I must be on the next boat to the Havens.” 

Before Gil-Galad knows what he’s doing, he speaks. “I can take you to the port. I noticed your horse is not here and I am happy to assist you.” 

“If you don’t mind, that would be perfect. Erestor had to borrow my horse today and I expected him to be back by now. Meeting with Círdan must have taken longer than he expected,” she says. The corners of her lips are upturned in the barest hint of a smile as her fingers tuck an errant lock of curly hair behind her ear. “You can leave these in my forge for now. Just come back for them once you return from the port.” 

He sets the spear and shield down on the table after they re-enter the forge and Vórime grabs the notebook from before, carefully placing it in her pack. She mounts his horse effortlessly and he follows suit, wrapping his arms around her to take hold of the reins as she leans back and adjusts her position on the horse. 

The sweet scent of lavender fills his nose and he sighs softly before urging his horse onwards, tightening his grip on the reins as they increase in speed, the scenery blurring. 

The ride is short and Vórime dismounts as soon as she is able, only staying long enough to thank him before hurrying to cross the gangplank and reach the ship. Gil-Galad lingers and watches the ship depart 10 minutes later, smiling at the figure waving at him from the stern before turning away and sighing. This isn’t good.

***

It only grows worse over the next ten years, Gil-Galad finds. Oropher is unhelpful as well, confirming the fact that he has been working tirelessly to avoid for ages. He  _ is  _ in love with her, though he doubts that she returns his feelings. 

Even if she does, their kind does not marry in times of war. And war was indeed on the horizon once more. Only three of the sons of Fëanor remain, their whereabouts unknown. Gil-Galad lays awake at night and worries, worries about the Fëanorians, Morgoth, the elves now under his rule, everything. And  _ her,  _ it was impossible not to think of her now. 

She tells him one day that luck must run out someday and that she is not worried, but he still is. He always is. And perhaps he is right to be worried.

***

Gil-Galad is arguing with Oropher when it happens. They run outside when they hear the commotion, soldiers running to the docks. Erestor appears immediately, his own daggers resting over leather armor. In the distance, they can see flames. 

Sirion is on fire. 

They bring their armor aboard and dress as they sail. He shouts commands to his troops:  _ help the civilians first, bring them to the ships and depart if necessary.  _ The ships are aflame, Gil-Galad sees. Only one group would do such a thing. 

Oropher, Thranduil, and Erestor along with a small company join him on their search through the city. Bodies litter the ground, both Fëanorian and citizens of Sirion. The fighting has mostly ceased, they find. Each alley and street brings more pain and few answers until they reach Elwing and Eärendil’s residence, finding the guards slain with Elwing and her children nowhere in sight. 

In the back alleyway, they find her. Maglor stands on the rooftop above and disappears before they are able to react. The blood rushing in his ears nearly drowns out Erestor’s sobs as he cradles his sister’s body. He only makes it a few steps before he falls to his knees shaking. Her eyes are closed but blood stains her face and abdomen, pooling below her. No matter how much Erestor shakes her, Vórime does not wake. She never will.

Later, they learn Elwing leaped off the cliff and by the gift of Ulmo, was transformed into a bird and flew away with the silmaril before Maedhros could retrieve it. Amras is dead. Many are.

He finally breaks down when he is left alone to wash the blood off of himself. When Erestor was barely able to stand, he carried Vórime’s body to be put with the other’s, laying her down next to Elwing’s lady-in-waiting. The tears do not cease until daylight breaks on the next day and the redness fades quickly. The scars remain, though. Gil-Galad understands now why elves do not marry in times of war. Yet that does not matter to him, for falling in love was enough to leave an everlasting scar.

**Author's Note:**

> I decided to go with The Lost Tales version for some crispy Amrod, so there are only three Fëanorians left. Also, it's left ambiguous so you can figure out if Vórime ever did return his feelings or not. I am tagging it as unrequited love though because Gil-Galad believes it is. Other than that, I can't really think of anything.


End file.
